Sonata

by A. F. Henley

  Ian shrugged. "Then it doesn't. To quote a young man I've met recently, 'It'll be good, we'll have fun, we'll get off. End of story.'"

  He was trying to make a point; trying to display the callousness of the remark. It was supposed to be met with disapproval, distaste, outright derision even. It was supposed to show Jordan that even if it didn't sound cruel in his head, when it was spoken aloud it ended up making the speaker sound like an asshole–a cold, careless asshole.

  It didn't work.

  "All right," Jordan said. "Then you leave."

  Aubrey's words came back to poke at him. "Enjoy yourself. Be grateful. At least you got some."

  "If you want me to," Ian agreed.

  "I will."

  Okay, Ian told himself. Round four.

  *~*~*

  Jordan arched underneath him, panting and squirming into his touch. Ian had started with his hands, laying Jordan out on the bed like he was a canvas and tracing invisible marks on every inch of skin. He took his time. He enjoyed the hard and responsive body like a condemned man enjoys a last meal. When Jordan made to sit up, Ian pressed him back down to the mattress. If Jordan made the attempt to respond in same to the tickles and intense explorations, Ian stilled his hands. Jordan was primed and hard as a rock before Ian ever lowered lips to heated skin.

  Collar bones and neck, sternum and nipples, belly button and hipbones; everything was tasted with slow kisses, wet sucks, or long licks. Everything except what Jordan waited for.

  "Stop playing," Jordan had demanded more than once. "Don't tease!"

  The only replies Ian granted towards the mandates were the murmured praises of structure and form, the huffed sounds of delight. Because fuck it, if Ian was only going to get the one shot, he was going to give it everything he could.

  By the time Ian finally dragged his tongue up the inside of Jordan's splayed legs and mouthed tight balls, Jordan let out a rush of air and a groan so deep that Ian had to playfully tell him to be quiet lest he wake Cole.

  With one hand holding back questing hips and the other seeking Jordan's sac, Ian swallowed Jordan completely in one, long, deep slide. He heard Jordan choke back another sound, felt fingers thread through his hair and grip, and lost the battle to keep Jordan's hips in place. He gave up trying, released balls to search out hole, and relaxed his throat to let Jordan fuck his mouth.

  "Please," Jordan whispered and the sound of his voice, the need in it, made Ian's blood spike.

  He pulled away long enough to ask, "What? What do you want?" then succumbed to the draw back to Jordan's skin, nudged physically and enticed mentally. His pointer finger found its lure and didn't hesitate to sink inside heat and muscle.

  "Make me cum," Jordan panted. "Please make me cum."

  Ian's cock jumped. He rocked into the mattress to gain friction from movement, but kept his interest on Jordan's body alone. The way Jordan sounded, the way he moved, the way his ass tightened and released around Ian's push—even his grip on Ian's hair—made pleasure rush through Ian's everywhere.

  "Gladly," Ian murmured. "I would love to taste you."

  His consent only served to ramp up Jordan's need. Jordan's thrusts into Ian's throat became ruthless, seeking depth and speed, but Ian let Jordan take what he needed without balking. Breath became gasps and moans became contained shouts of "Ah!" and "Fuck!" that were quieted between clenched teeth.

  Ian added another finger alongside the first, sucking harder, doing everything in his power to quench his own need to preach worship at the way Jordan's body responded to the increased pressure. It was just so damn decadent: knowing he was making Jordan bend like a bow underneath his mouth, knowing he was the touch that made hot, compressive walls tremble and cling to his fingers.

  Every muscle in Jordan's body was tense. His legs never stopped moving—toes curling, knees shifting, thighs spreading—as if unseen hands worked invisible strings to control them. His chest and stomach rolled with every breath.

  He was beautiful.

  "Ah!" The sound could only be taken as warning, but Ian didn't need a caveat to know that Jordan was there. He felt it in the swell of Jordan's cock, the shiver on Jordan's skin. He heard it in the catch and hold of Jordan's breath.

  It was a quiet gasp that partnered the first shot on Ian's tongue, and soft mewls that accompanied the rest. But Ian didn't stop swallowing and sucking until Jordan was twitching underneath the attention and drawing ragged, hitched breaths.

  Only then did Ian lift to his knees and within a dozen strokes of his own aching cock, shot the sprays of his release over Jordan's torso. Jordan didn't even open his eyes as the hot drops fell, he just grinned.

  Ian lowered himself with an arm that felt too shaky and tried to regulate overworked lungs and an erratic heartbeat. The act of reaching orgasm should not be so damn exhausting.

  They rested in silence, Jordan on his back and Ian flanking Jordan's side—hip to mattress, arm tucked under head—drawing circles around cooling droplets of seed while goose bumps rose on Jordan's skin.

  "Don't fall asleep," he told himself. No matter how heavy your eyelids get. No matter how quiet it is. No matter how relaxing the pull and push of air through mutual chests sounds.

  *~*~*

  "Get up," the whisper came again and Ian threw his arm over his face and turned away from the voice.

  "Get. Up!"

  Ian groaned and stretched his shoulder before lifting his arm to peer at the wavering light on his wrist that, in most cases, identified the time of day. But as it read an unbelievable three-twelve a.m., there had to be some kind of mistake. He turned to face the voice feeling disoriented and displaced, more so when he realized he didn't recognize the layout of the room or the feel of the bed. "Wh—"

  "You need to leave."

  Jordan. Oh, shit! Jordan!

  Ian blinked hard, trying to reseat thought and design. Had he really let himself fall asleep? Had Jordan let him fall asleep? "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong." Jordan hushed him with a finger and then repeated, "You just have to go."

  "Why?"

  "Because I say so."

  Ian struggled to sit up. He locked eyes with Jordan. It was hard to read expression in the dark. He tried for humor. "Was I snoring? Taking up too much of the bed?"

  "Ian ..." Jordan sighed. "Fuck. You just gotta go, okay?"

  Ian smirked without mirth. "Your wife about to come home?"

  "Firstly, no. Secondly, I don't want to talk to you about my life. Please, Ian. Just get up and go."

  "Seriously?"

  Jordan's voice dropped. "Seriously."

  Ian tried not to be pissed off as he stood and found his clothing. "I did well," he kept thinking. He'd had Jordan ecstatic to the point of combustion, begging to be finished off. Twisting underneath him, for fuck sake. Jordan had been moaning his damn name.

  So why ... the fuck ... was he still getting kicked out of the apartment?

  Jordan was already standing in the kitchen, the bright lights ungodly at the hour, the dark circles Ian had noticed under Jordan's eyes that much darker. "You need sleep."

  "I'm fine." Jordan poured a glass of juice and shook the can at Ian until Ian declined with a headshake. "So, thanks. For, you know, the blowjob and everything."

  Ian watched silently as Jordan drained the glass and set it in the sink, not speaking until the lack of sound became awkward. "You really want me to go?"

  "Yeah, really."

  Fucking ridiculous, Ian thought. It was just getting ridiculous. He sounded desperate. It made him furious with himself. And furious with Jordan for continuing to deny him.

  Regardless, Ian's conscience kept poking at him. "Come on," it told him. "Just one more try."

  He dug into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. "Here," he said, without looking up at Jordan, setting a card down on the counter with a snap. "This is my business card. My cell number is on it in case you change your mind."

  He tucked the wallet away, straightened his jacket
and moved towards the entrance. He paused, he waited, he spoke, "Change your mind."

  He didn't turn around to see if Jordan's expression changed.

  Fermata

  "You run those reports?"

  Ian looked up and caught the harried gaze of his co-worker, Phil. "They were emailed to you three hours ago," Ian said, dropping his attention back to the printout in front of him. "You'd know that if you ever spent any time at your desk."

  "Whoa," Phil said in mock-alarm, throwing up his arms like some kind of moronic cartoon character. "We just a little bit cranky?"

  "As for we, I have no clue," Ian said without emotion. "But as for me, yes I am. I have a lot on my plate right now. Was there something else you needed?"

  Phil flopped into the chair opposite Ian's desk and gave him a pitiful stare. "Actually, yes. I was hoping you could stay to let the audit team out of the building tonight. My wife planned this dinner with some people down the street—"

  Ian glared at him. "I've stayed all week. I specifically told you Monday morning when I came in that I'd had a shitty weekend and fully intended to leave early Friday so I could get away from the city before traffic built up."

  "Yeah, I know—"

  "And we both agreed that I would stay every night Monday to Thursday if the auditors weren't ready to leave when the office closed. As long as you covered Friday."

  It had been a ruse, a total lie. Ian had no plans to go anywhere for the weekend. He'd come in Monday still nursing his wounds from Jordan's dismissal and had decided right then and there that he was going home early on Friday and drinking the next weekend away, just to avoid the possibility that he might get an iota of an idea to try and seek Jordan out again. One had to know when it was time for one to stop trying. One had to know when putting the effort in just became making a fool of one's self.

  "Right, see, I know that," Phil said. "But I didn't know about the dinner then. And let's face it; you're a single guy. You can leave any time, right? It's not like you got to pack up the kids and the wife and—"

  "Get the fuck out of my office," Ian said and turned to his computer screen.

  "Easy on the hostility, champ—"

  "I. Am not. A champ," Ian hissed. "Get out. And no. Fuck your dinner and fuck your family. I have plans, we had a deal, and I'm sick of you thinking your family life is more important than my single one. Great, your dick works; you can breed. Woo-freaking-hoo. That little fact doesn't make you more significant than me."

  Even as he spoke the words Ian knew the rant was uncalled for. Long in coming, yes. Burning the fuse of his patience, yes. But it could have been said in a calm and reasonable manner; joked over even. Phil was self-centered and really did consider his family to be the nucleus of existence. That didn't make him an asshole. Ian was more than sure he'd probably feel the same way if he had his own little one waiting for him at home. Still. That wasn't the point. It was respect. It was consideration. It was … entirely pointless.

  "Fuck." Ian lifted his hands to his face and palmed tension out of his eyes and cheeks. "Fine, Phil. Whatever. Go. I got it."

  The look on Phil's face was stunned confusion. "No, no," he stammered. "It's okay. I didn't mean to—"

  "Really, it's all right," Ian insisted. "Go ahead. Take care of your family. Tell Jenn I said hello." He turned back to the computer and ignored everything else until Phil finally got up and left.

  *~*~*

  It was almost nine by the time Ian left the office and he couldn't even blame the audit team for it. On the contrary, they had each come in one by one, well before closing, and nodded their, "Have a nice weekend," and "Don't stay too late," mantras in sing-song voices that suggested happy plans and get-togethers. By that time, Ian had been immersed in a new set of figures that had both suspicious undertones and questionable assumptions, effectively seeding his need for the coercion of numerical truth. It was a task that never failed to get Ian's mind worming through columns and details for hours. He had to finally force himself to set it aside, retrieve both jacket and keys and exit the building when he realized how late it was.

  A light mist was falling as he set the alarm to the building and scurried to his car. Tiny crystals winked at him through the windshield as he stared through it, miniscule diamonds brought to life by the headlights of passing cars, clinging to the glass before gravity gathered enough of them to drag them down. It was a process that made Ian feel moody. Melancholy. Tired.

  His stomach growled angrily, reminding him it had been over eight hours since he ate last and he debated his options while he maneuvered his car out of the parking spot and onto the street. It wasn't until the shiny glassed office buildings began to diminish to convenience stores and head shops that Ian realized he was driving aimlessly. And when he recalled the tiny restaurant with the blood red carpeting and velvet wallpaper that his parents used to have Sunday dinner at every week without fail, Ian happily found a spot in front of it and tromped through the thickening rain towards the front entrance.

  It had been the first "ethnic" restaurant his family had ever eaten at and, in hindsight, had been all but Americanized in everything but décor. He remembered sweet and sour chicken balls, wonton soup and beef fried rice. But he also remembered feeling like he was somewhere special, someplace different. In his child's mind, he'd been transported away from Texan burgers and Chicago pizza and dropped into downtown China. It was that sensation he craved. Even at the risk of bloating and heartburn.

  The same lanterns still hung from the ceiling, fading red orbs with tassels and gold symbols. The carpeting had been replaced with something nondescript but the red and black-embossed velvet still hung on the walls. Worn furniture hid the worst of its damage with reduced lighting. Yellow cut-glass tumblers still sat on every table, waiting to be tumbled full of ice-chipped tap water. Paper napkins sat in folded teepees between unmatched silverware. It looked perfect.

  Not a single soul sat at the tables. The only suggestion of life came from the barely-audible music being piped in and the occasional metallic click of pots from somewhere unseen. He helped himself to a table close to the bar and waited as the chatter of glassware being carried in a dish rack approached.

  "Wow. Stalker much?"

  Ian's eyes flew wide at the voice. He swiveled in his chair so quickly he almost lost his balance. "Holy shit, Jordan." A blush of embarrassment began to burn on his cheeks. "I swear to God I had no idea—"

  "Right, another random encounter?" Jordan set the tray of glasses on the bar and nodded at a similarly approaching Asian man. As the other man slipped behind the bar, Jordan walked towards the table.

  Ian cleared his throat. "Well to be fair, Jordan, the first time we met you approached me. The second time, I'll give you random but the third time, I knew you were there. It was meeting Chrissy that was the chance occurrence that round."

  Jordan smirked. "I'm just fucking with you. Though you are actually making me start to question the universe's plan for us. Unless, of course, none of this is chance and you really are some crazed-out stalker, watching my every move from the bushes and charting my day so you just," he finger-quoted his next words, "show up."

  Ian shook his head slowly. "I swear not."

  "I know. Still screwing with you. I actually only started here yesterday so you'd have been hard pressed to know about it, short of knowing the owner." Jordan suddenly stopped and leveled their gazes with a frown. "You don't actually know the owner, do you?"

  Ian's eyes flicked from Jordan's to the smiling Asian man behind the cash register. "I ... err ... no. Definitely not."

  An uncomfortable silence fell with nothing but the clink of silverware as it was dried and sorted. "So," Ian said finally, "are you serving?"

  "I am. I was," Jordan shrugged. "But the kitchen closed at nine."

  Ian's face fell. "Damn. So much for dinner."

  Jordan gave him a long, patently-Jordan-esque unreadable stare. "Tell you what. The cook packed up some of the leftovers from the buffet fo
r me to take home. If you give me a ride back, I'll share."

  Ian fought to shut down the flutter that started in his belly. "You want me to eat with you?"

  Jordan shrugged again. "I have to pick up Cole. If you're okay with that."

  "Are you?" Ian asked. "Okay with it, I mean? After all, last time we talked …"

  "Yeah, well," Jordan tugged at his sleeve awkwardly. "If I'm being honest, I'd have to say that I'm starting to get a little curious about this whole universal-intervention thing that's happening here. I suppose it's worth another hour of research."

  Ian smiled. "So you're telling me I spent the whole last week convincing myself that I had to forget about you for nothing?"

  "I'm telling you we can eat leftover Chinese food together," Jordan frowned. "That's it."

  "Will there be sweet and sour chicken?" Ian asked.

  Jordan's frown faded to a smile and he shook his head. "There will be whatever there will be."

  "Indeed there will," Ian agreed. And he hoped he wasn't the only one that caught the cryptic undertone.

  *~*~*

  "What, no candles?" Ian teased as he helped Jordan set out the cardboard packaging that held the food. He wrote the joke off as a flat-line when Jordan merely gave him a sideways look and got up to get plates and forks.

  The drive had been quiet and longer than he'd expected. While he knew where he'd been, and knew where he was going, the thirty-five minutes it took to get from 'A' to 'B' still surprised him. It must have been one hell of a bus ride, especially for what had to be nothing more than a minimum wage job. He doubted Jordan gave the concept a second thought though. When he saw the way that Jordan picked up the sleeping Cole, how Cole was carried and laid into bed, it was more than obvious that Jordan's world rotated around the little guy. There was no question in Ian's mind that Jordan would move heaven and earth to make ends meet for Cole's sake. That wasn't a trait that Ian associated with too many people in Jordan's age group. While he had no disrespect for the younger generation, he'd known enough flighty, careless, demanding young men to know that a sense of responsibility and selflessness was, if not a rarity, then certainly not the norm.